


The White Room or How It Began

by aquandrian



Category: American Psycho (movie), Christian Bale - Fandom, The Machinist
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-09
Updated: 2005-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/aquandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: Patrick belongs to Bret Easton Ellis. Trev belongs to Brad Anderson and/or Scott Kosar, Filmax International, etc.</p><p>Originally posted at http://aquandrian.livejournal.com/271248.html</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Room or How It Began

Patrick has dinner with Price and Van Patten at Barcadia, pink white curls of flesh on a plate drizzled over with crimson. Dried twisted white branches around them are strung with fairy lights and Van Patten’s convinced it's Demi Moore wearing Givenchy at the next table. It’s not. It’s Winona Ryder wearing Gucci.

Patrick flexes his stiff hand and laughs far too loudly at Price's punchline. He gets a slightly contemptuous look for it and spends a few moments wondering what Price's head would look like on a stick.

Patrick goes home. There's a wasted nightmare on his couch. Letting his imported beer sweat on the glass coffeetable and staring hollow faced at the burning television in the darkened apartment. It's not even porn, it's the fucking History Channel.

Patrick hits the lights, the walls blaze into white. "Jesus, guy, put a coaster down."

It’s a picture of grotesque domesticity. Patrick puts his briefcase down, hangs the Prada coat up careful. And the skeleton rolls its bullet head back against the couch, grins at him. Long fingers scissored around a cigarette, the thin mouth mocks him with a trail of smoke. 

"Fucking psycho," Patrick says and kisses Trevor, cigarette and all. Smoke gets in his eyes, the smouldering tip burns them both, and it's a mess of tongue, tobacco and teeth. It's always chaos.

~~~~~~

Trevor had been a folded wreck in the stench and shadow of the alley. Patrick had been a shape of elegance and a lie in the city foglight. 

"Hello. Pat Bateman."

Pretty yuppie. Trev had stared, suspicious and sullen, out of the darkness, nostrils flaring at the scent of expensive dangerous cologne through the gnaw of hunger and the terrible terrible paranoia of a toothy grin just around the corner. Patrick had crouched down, his coat rich and compassion soft in the reflected streetlight, his hands sleek in black leather dipping into his pocket. A ten dollar bill slips out, slips back into the wallet, then a five dollar note is offered, white green whimsy against sinister black leather.

"You want some money?" he asks gently. Beautifully molded face like some benevolent seraphim. And Trev knows he sees it, something behind those brown eyes, something cold and hard like the approximation of power. He sees it like he flinches at the sound of a mocking laugh on the serrated edge of his hearing. Weren't seraphim fucking insane? 

"Some .. food?" 

Trevor stares distrustfully, he knows there's filth crusted on the side of his face, sores on his body where things had gnawed at him in so many alleys since the stumbling run from the airport. His overalls are stiff thin and vile, he can't even smell himself any more. 

“It’s cold out,” the pretty yuppie says and smiles a toothy smile, “isn’t it?”

Trev flashes to the oily mirrors of black aviators and a pincer hand closing on his left shoulder, feels a sudden welcome urge to smash the perfect face in. He grinds down on the rage, shrinks back into the shadows, the fingers of his right hand curling around his left wrist, struggling to contain the hunger. He’s not the one who needs protection. 

The pretty yuppie puts the money away and reaches into his briefcase. The streetlight carves impossible artificial curves into his polished face, polished like the metal etches and shape of his watch. And Trev sees the glint of light flash off the metal of the blade, moves without thinking, bile leaping in the back of his throat like the whirr of something black and hideous. He lunges out of the dark, catches the blade in his palm and pushes back, a wild mad thing erupting snarling into the yuppie’s shocked face. Lightbloodsilver drips down his wrist, he’s dragged them both to their feet and the yuppie’s too unnerved to say or do anything. 

They stay like that for what feels like an endless moment. Patrick realises there’s blood on the Prada and a fucking psycho with crazy eyes has a bony hand around his throat. Suddenly he feels very scared and alone in an alley that smells like shit and oil, staring into demonic far too dark eyes. He’d bitten his tongue when the derelict had caught him around the throat and now there’s blood pooling in his mouth. It dribbles out the corner of his lips and he sees those eyes shift there. A flicker of unsurety that Patrick could take advantage of but he’s realising other things. That the body against him is grotesquely wasted, something he’d look away from on a daylit street, and that it’s trembling with rapidly dissipating strength. 

“I …” Patrick swallows and the hand loosens. Eyes still frightened angry, idiot’s still trying to keep control. Patrick curls his fingers tighter on the knife handle and tries again. “You’re hungry, right?”

The filthy face narrows. “You need food,” Patrick croaks and manages a smile. “I can get you food. Place to sleep. I have this … great apartment.”

Trevor isn’t fooled. He hasn't eaten in days, hasn’t spoken for even longer aside from a wordless bellow earlier that night when some black derelict with a dog had tried to oust him from the nest of cardboard and garbage bags. His throat still hurts, his voice a barely remembered rasp. The pretty yuppie's smile doesn't change at all and Trev thinks maybe he's not the only one hallucinating here. 

“That,” he says sarcastically, “would be dreamy.” 

~~~~~~

Trev beats Patrick with implacable precision. He swings the club easily, stroke after stroke, thud after thud. The technical beauty of it makes Patrick cry. He's spread against the silhouette of a suit sprawled on white, naked in the bright apartment. Flinches with every strike, cheek crashing into the glass, his cock hits the ridged frame with a spark of pain. Trev has settled into the rhythm, he breathes out, regular and deep, with every smack of flesh. He follows a precise pattern from the centre of Patrick's back out to one shoulder then to the other, rotates the club and catches him neatly across the lower back. Patrick makes some strangled snarl shriek of happiness because those were his kidneys crunching in beautiful shock. His back's a gorgeous radiating mass of heat, feels bright red and prickling all over. He stumbles against the painting, drunk high flying on a cokeabsinthespeed rush of perfectly natural chemical. It's so fucking funny he could laugh. 

And maybe he does giggle, brokenly, hysterically. Because Trev forces him down on his knees and Patrick goes willingly, his thighs wobbling, the soles of his feet bare. His lids waver, drift because pain's breaking like waves of green and white foam through his brain. And he sees Trev undo the buttons on the filthy overalls. 

~~~~~~

“You like Wham?”

The apartment’s white, bleached fucking bone white. Trev is shaking minutely, he grips the edge of the side table hard enough to hope the yuppie doesn’t see he can barely stand. Pat, Patrick is talking about the precision of commercial pop and carefully crafted homoerotic appeal. All Trev can hear is a woman’s voice floating settling pearl white sheets around the dizzy hurt of his mind. She sounds needy, chattering with crazed hope. “Just make it clean, y’know?” And he feels like a stain, a great spreading iridescent oil slick that this pretty boy in a suit thinks he can control.

Patrick’s still talking, eyes cheery and mouth curved in a manic grin around words Trev doesn’t bother to hear. He watches the long manicured fingers undo the cufflinks. They had eaten in the cab ride here, drive through McDonald’s fare that Patrick had ordered with the same gleeful enthusiasm and watched Trev wolf down. He still tastes sticky sweet cola on his teeth, a suitably weird sense that strengthens him enough to move away from the side table. While he had eaten in the cab, Patrick had carefully cleaned his blood off the knife. Trev knew then. He hadn’t been wrong. 

And now there’s the sense of a game Patrick’s trying to play and possibly hasn’t realised he picked the wrong … pawn.

“ … what they don’t understand is it’s a masterpiece of lyrical sensitivity married to — ”

Trev catches Patrick by the throat and slams his mouth hard against his. It’s like tumbling through a hall of mirrors, the cut and curve of identically shaped lips tasting quite different, the push of the same bones through different flesh. Patrick stiffens in a moment of pure roaring silent rage, then snarls into Trev’s mouth and bites, bites really fucking hard. This time time Trevor’s mouth bleeds and the fucking psycho in the halfdone suit is sucking on that blood, pressing in closer, licking it up with faint animal sounds, hands clutching digging like they’ll tear through material and meat.

Spite, ill will, vengeance. Trev goes with it. 

~~~~~~

Patrick has a pristine white bed, all downy soft and anonymous and deep. It’s a motif Trev’s beginning to recognise. He pulls back on the thick golden brown hair, arches Patrick’s sharp throat as he kisses him openmouthed and raw. They’re leaving smears of oil and dirt and unidentifiable dark on the clean sheets, neither stopped to take off their shoes. They kiss and fight, pushing into the unbearable softness of the bed, Trev’s skeletal strength pushing down on Patrick’s muscled hardbody and Patrick lets him, deliriously breathless with all the wrongness of this. Trev pulls those fine suit trousers open, the weave catches on his ragged stained fingernails. Patrick is breathing in the stench of alley male desperation, he’s been bitten hard on the collarbone to keep down but scrabbles for the buttons on the overalls. Suddenly wants that filthy unwashed cock in his hands, it’ll probably be smaller, softer, no match at all, yeah how could this wreck possibly compete?

But Trev kisses him and god, his mouth tastes even worse than before, and Patrick’s cock is being stripped, bruised hard between thin steely fingers. They fuck up against each other, torn breaths, cheekbone cutting across cheekbone. Patrick drags a hand up between them, wraps it around Trev’s throat and he’s allowed, sees the catch and flicker of something powerful frightened and dark across the angular wasted face. So Patrick grips harder and harder, feels the bones bite back even as he tries to break, squeezing hard on the jut of cord. But his vision is shorting out behind his lids, thick slashes of pure crimson across the inside of his skull and Trev’s breath breaks hot against his face. They come in splurts and shudders of white on dark and Patrick feels Trev’s lashes brush his cheek like something vile and innocent. 

He ought to cut the fairy fucker up, he ought to get out the nail gun and punctuate every queer hollow with studs, carve Wham lyrics into all that faggot flesh. But he doesn’t. All he can do right then is lie under the skeletal hideous warmth and try not to shake because there’s cigarette smoke in his apartment and maybe Evelyn will want fucking Dorsia for the wedding rehearsal.

Trevor laughs for no discernable reason and rolls out of bed, a wasted nightmare. 

Later, Patrick promises himself.

~~~~~~

In the shower, Trevor is splayed out against the cubicle wall, his recovering cock against the warm glass, and Patrick’s mouth follows the washcloth, traces and tastes the knobs of a whiplash spine, slides along the jagged hacks of shoulder blade. Trev's body is a ghastly violin strung to the point of gothic torture, a bizarre impossibility in the tasteful colour and symmetry of Patrick’s world. Patrick watches the water sluice down the lines and curves of that wasted body. Trevor is all angles, blades and ridges and knobs, like some wraith of a machine come alive in the last moments of mechanical failure. 

When Patrick had come in, the shipwreck hadn’t turned on the shower, hadn’t taken off the overalls. No, he was standing in the middle of Patrick’s designer bathroom, surrounded by rows and rows of perfectly calculated product, and was washing his hands with bleach.

Right then and there, Patrick knew how to fuck the psycho.

Now, he tells Trevor every detail of his grooming rituals, about the honey almond scrub he uses on the washcloth. And Trev ducks his head, grins a little but mostly tightens against the brush of cock flesh and listens to the murmur of violence in Patrick’s hands. Between his feet, black water swirls towards the drain like permanent marker ink dissolving and Trevor panics a little. That can’t be, he doesn’t know why but it can’t. 

At that moment, Patrick shifts, all the smooth warm chiseled contours of his body slipping away. Trevor darts a look over his shoulder. In the dull grey silver gleam of the bathroom, Patrick steps out of the shower, reaches for the box of bleach and brings it into the cubicle. Trev goes utterly still. 

Bleach on the washcloth, Trevor arches away like he’s soaring on nightmares burning into bright air, memories of mother and coffee and gilt brocade dissolving, falling away. And Patrick goes slow, breathes in the powder of crimes he didn’t commit, scrapes the sweet harsh fumes into flesh, and watches the pallid skin react, break out into raw bubbling guilt. At some point, a glint of metal appears. Trevor’s forehead is against the warm glass, breath white and ragged, and Patrick glances back down. The blade from his shaving razor is in Trev’s half curled hand and there are words waiting to be formed in the steam.

Words of Russian that Patrick misspells into Trevor’s freckled burnt back, across and along the long downward curve of bone, flaying out like tiny sprays of spite, ill will, vengeance, revenge, penance, a woman’s holy name and Patrick cuts extra hard on that one, swerves the vowel curve viciously enough to make Trevor cry out. His blood tastes like betrayal. Patrick doesn’t want to think too much about that. Fucking psycho, he says silently and without meaning.

When the words stop, Trevor turns, presses his bloodied back to the glass wall, his knees wobbling again, and looks at Patrick. Who gets to his feet, licks the blade slow and careful and lays it against the line of Trev’s cheekbone. He looks absurdly pleased with what he sees. So Trev goes down on his knees. Fits his mouth over Patrick’s cock. In the biting water, he lets Patrick fuck his mouth, hard and brutal, crashing against his teeth, the blade sliding along his cheekbone, up and down and forward, glancing far too close far too many times to his retina, sexfearlye burning leaping up his throat. And Trev pulls off just as Patrick’s about to come, slices his cheek open on the blade. A pearl of blood slides down to the corner of his mouth, split by the scented spray. 

Patrick snarls at him, a wordless animal order, and kisses him, drags him to his feet, always a bully. And Trev knows bullies only too well, kisses right back, twisting his hand in Patrick’s drenched hair. They stumble and fall, the razor blade skids somewhere along the tiles and the cubicle shatters in so many pieces of light and pain. Tides of bloody water wash across the floor, drowned with glints of hurt. Patrick’s on his knees, starts to gibber with rage, and Trev moves like a whiplash, gets an arm around his throat before he can protest, and scrabbles for the honey almond scrub.

Trev rapes Patrick on the black floor, the bite of bleach burning along their skin, fermented poison scenting the air, and Patrick knows a kind of fabulous happiness. When Trevor rips his teeth into the back of Patrick's neck, he flails and his hand is grabbed and smashed into the floor. Patrick howls, his hand a mess of blood and bone, and Trevor squeezes without mercy. Just when he’s about to come, Patrick sees the glint of blade near his cock and feels metal slice into his flesh. He passes out in terrified joyful orgasm. Trev lets the senseless body slump to the floor but doesn’t stop until he finishes, a short deep shudder of a woman saying hello and kissing him on the mouth. 

Yeah, he thinks with a small grin, he could give it up for the right guy.

~~~~~

Even Trev's cock is a blade, thin and long and tapered, jutting out. Patrick leans back, bows up like a powerful thing, his mouth opens. Trev straddles his face, the sparse hair on the insides of his thighs slide along Patrick's cheeks and he doesn't close his eyes, sees the dark places of scrotum and the strange deep curve into ass. Trev's cock slides hard and uncomfortable and right and impossible into Patrick's mouth and fucks without mercy, fucks until Patrick thinks his throat is stripped raw, until tears leak from the corners of his eyes. Every thrust throbs through him like a new impact of club into raw flesh, shudders down his spine. And his own cock hurts, aches tight from root to tip, a blissful agony almost dismembered from the burn of his mouth. 

Trev changes angle without warning, leans forward and Patrick chokes then screams around hard cock flesh because the unmistakable bite of a metal grater scrapes down the centre of his chest. Trev grabs his hair with one hand, holds his head in position, and drags the grater back up. Patrick pictures long curling ribbons of skin peeling off, comes so hard he sees flashes of crimson across the inside of his skull, and impossibly his throat opens up to Trev's cock sliding deeper. Yes, the bastard sighs happily and the kicker is it makes Patrick happy too, enough to hum a note deep and long and make Trev come in hot bitter spurts down his greedy throat, his violin spine arching in the white air, the point of his chin to the ceiling. Patrick's delirious with nothing he can define any more but he licks, runs his nails up trembling whip thin thighs and catches the folding wreck as Trev pulls off and collapses. 

It’s ludicrous but then nothing ever made sense in either of their worlds. So Trevor doesn’t protest when Patrick mindlessly mouths the medal on his bare chest. He puts his face against the thick warmth of Patrick’s hair and closes his eyes. 

~~~~~~

Sometimes Patrick wakes up in the night, sweating and shaking at the spectre of five cold words on a white door. Sometimes he's afraid he's nothing more than a pathetic creature trapped in a world that doesn't want to see him, that there are no blonde heads in the fridge or mutilated female bodies slumped in drying bloodsplatters by the bath, nothing to prove him extraordinary.

Then he sees the flicker of blue television glow on the wall and hears behind him the steady deep breathing of an insomniac staring dry eyed and unmoving at his waking nightmares. 

Patrick turns over and sleeps the sleep of the justly fucked.

~~~~~~~

When the shower had been turned off, while the water dried in flecks of glass and bleach and blood, Trevor had lain between pearl white sheets that smelt of sweet cyanide. He had smoked and listened to a pretty yuppie’s confessional fantasies. Patrick may not want to think about things but Trev does nothing but think. He appreciates what they look like, firm muscle nestled against skeletal contour, glistening tan against anemic pallor. And he knows what they are, a soft sleepy kiss in the white room of a shared hallucination. 

He still doesn’t sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Written to:  
> TheFutureEmbrace, Billy Corgan  
> Notes From A Ceiling, The Mess Hall  
> Visual Audio Sensory Theater, VAST  
> Ava Adore, Smashing Pumpkins  
> Feeling Sideways, The Mess Hall


End file.
